by Jill Jones
Didn’t want to hear it.
She thought about that for a moment, and then realized that despite her efforts and intentions not to allow the Gypsy legend to influence her life and affairs, it was doing so anyway. Hadn’t it already infiltrated her work? And now, when she’d finally taken a chance and let a man even tangentially into her life, was the curse, that cursed letter, going to destroy any possibilities she might have had for developing a deeper relationship with Alex?
Selena felt as if she wanted to cry from anger and frustration, and from the strange sense of loss she felt that Alex might indeed be gone for good. Was he?
She didn’t want to hear about the curse, but suddenly it was a matter of great urgency that she understand it better so that she could confront her own irrational thoughts and fears. She had to talk to Matka.
Today.
And then she remembered her disabled vehicle. Well, maybe Matka would have to wait until tomorrow.
With a heavy heart Selena thumbed through the directory that came with her telephone and rang the number of a nearby garage.
Maggie Flynn opened the refrigerator door in the ultramodern, ultrasterile kitchen that had cost her half a year’s salary when she’d remodeled the town house upon her return from the States. She retrieved a carton of juice and slammed the door behind her. It had been daylight since just past five A.M., and she’d had to fight to remain asleep for the next hour and a half, her mind echoing and re-echoing the odd phone call from Eleanor Bates the night before. She knew Eleanor was keen on the debate, but after the rather strange twist in their conversation, Maggie knew the shrewd old woman was up to more than publicity.
Maggie had been too tired to think when Eleanor’s call had come in. She had barely arrived home, even though it was after seven o’clock. She’d had time only to kick off her shoes, pour a glass of wine, and shuffle through the mail. The meeting she’d attended had been aggravating—a panel of fools, in her estimation, wanting to institute even more bureaucracy into an already cumbersome reporting system for professors. Maggie did not gracefully abide fools, and had managed to make herself unpopular, not so much for her opposition to the plan, but rather for the outspoken, brash manner in which she did it.
Speaking of fools…She sipped her juice and gazed out into her small garden, refocusing her thoughts on the unexpected phone call from Eleanor Bates. What was that idiot Alex doing investing in art? He knew nothing about art and had never shown any interest in it. In fact, she literally had to drag him to that show in London.
That show in London.
The artist named Selena.
Maggie frowned, recalling vaguely the dark-haired woman who had entered the Perkins Galleries that afternoon. Recalling the hungry look on Alex Hightower’s face as his eyes followed her from the front of the shop to the back. The look Maggie had craved but never elicited from him during the short months of their relationship.
Her mind crawled back over the past couple of weeks to that dreadful encounter at Harrington House, picking up the pieces of an unwanted memory. A memory that not only included the ugly scene that had taken place between them, but also encompassed the image of Alex on the dance floor with a dark-haired woman Maggie hadn’t recognized…until this moment.
They were one and the same. The artist. The dance partner.
Selena.
And then all the pieces fell together.
It wasn’t art that Alex was after. It was the artist.
Maggie’s cheeks burned, and she slung the remainder of the juice into the sink, splashing the immaculate countertop with sticky nectar. She strode into the bathroom and turned the tap on full force, wondering why she gave a damn about Alex’s taste in art. Or women. He’d made it clear their affair was over.
If you could call it an affair, she thought bitterly, removing her robe and examining her lithe body in the mirror while the tub filled. From the beginning, she admitted, it had been relatively one-sided. She picked up a brush and ran it vigorously through her hair. She had wanted him far more than he’d seemed to want her, at least at first. They’d shared some good times, but whenever she got too close, he seemed to retreat behind an emotional wall she didn’t understand and he chose not to explain.
Maggie Flynn did not regret her fling with Alexander Hightower. In fact, if she were honest with herself, she still wanted him. Desperately. For in spite of his initial reluctance to extend their relationship beyond the boundaries of friendship, once she’d successfully eased him across that barrier, in bed he was the best she’d ever sampled. His body was hard, his lovemaking fierce, the way she liked it.
After she’d taken him to her bed, his earlier reluctance seemed to disappear. In fact, his passion had seemed insatiable. Whatever emotions had held him back before appeared no longer in the way. His need was very great, and she had been there for him, believing that somehow she was helping to heal the old wounds he never spoke about.
But she’d been wrong.
Something had happened. Abruptly and with little explanation, he’d become like a different person. Quite literally overnight. Although she remembered the pain in his eyes and the apology in his voice, she’d never believed it was because it was too soon after his divorce, as he’d told her.
She didn’t think it had been because of another woman. And she was positive it wasn’t because of anything she had done. The whole thing continued to confound her.
But Maggie detested the fact that she hadn’t had the class to walk away and not look back. Instead she’d engaged in schoolgirl tactics to rekindle his affection. She’d written notes. Left small gifts on his doorstep. Even after she returned to England, she’d indulged in her fantasy that one day he would want her back.
But he didn’t want her back and never would.
And now it looked as if there might be another woman.
Maggie stepped into the bath, which was heaped high with bubbles. What are you up to, Alexander Hightower? she asked silently, massaging the soft foam into the sensitive areas of her body he had once found so enticing.
Later that morning, after her classes were over, Dr. Maggie Flynn shut the door to her office and picked up the large telephone directory for the London metro area. Without hesitation she quickly located the number she sought. She knew intellectually that Alex’s newfound interest in art was none of her business.
But her interest at the moment had nothing to do with intellect.
Two rings. She tapped her nails nervously on the hardwood desk in her office.
“Perkins Galleries. How may I help you?”
“I wish to speak with the owner,” Maggie said, improvising her inquiry.
“That would be me. Tom Perkins.”
“Very well, Mr. Perkins. My name is Maggie Flynn. Dr. Maggie Flynn. I am calling to inquire about the work of an artist I believe you represent, the one who goes by the name of Selena?”
“I do indeed represent her. A marvelous young talent. Have you seen her work?”
“I was able to make it the last day of her exhibit at the end of May. Quite remarkable work. Where is she in residence?”
Tom Perkins paused. “I…uh, she’s asked me not to give out that information specifically, although I can tell you she’s from Yorkshire. You can see the influence of the mists on the moors in her paintings, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes. Certainly.”
Yorkshire.
Well, that answered one question. It was geographically possible that Alex could have run across her somewhere near Haworth. Her curiosity was not yet sated, however.
“When I visited your gallery, I was there with a friend whom I understand is very interested in purchasing one of Selena’s paintings, and I…I was wondering if you could tell me from your records if he has done so? I was considering giving him one as a gift, but I wouldn’t want to duplicate—”
“I will be happy to check for you. What is the gentleman’s name?”
“Hightower. Dr. Alexander Hightower.”
“You know Alexander Hightower?” The man’s voice almost squeaked with excitement, and Maggie wondered how Alex had become so notorious in the few short weeks he’d been in England.
“Yes. Yes, I do. Do you?”
“I met him only briefly. But I have been trying to get in touch with him.” The gallery owner’s voice became more guarded. “In answer to your question, no, he hasn’t purchased a painting yet, at least not that I know of. But he has told my client he represents an American collector who is interested.”
Alex’s antics got curiouser and curiouser.
“An American art collector? Who?”
“Henry H. Bonnell.”
“Bonnell!” Maggie almost choked. “Let me get this straight. He claims to represent an art collector named Henry H. Bonnell?”
“That’s what he’s told Selena. But quite frankly, I haven’t been able to locate any known collector in the States by that name. Perhaps you know of him?”
Maggie sank into the large chair behind her desk, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. “Yes,” she replied at last. “I know of an American collector named Bonnell. But I didn’t know he collected contemporary art.”
“Perhaps you could be so kind as to put me in touch with him. I am afraid your friend is moving very slowly, and if Mr. Bonnell is interested in Selena’s letter series, he will have to move quickly. She is almost sold out, and she doesn’t plan to paint more in this style once this is complete.”
“I doubt if time matters much to Mr. Bonnell, or Selena’s paintings. You see, Mr. Perkins, Henry H. Bonnell has been dead for almost ninety years.”
The fury and accusation Alex had seen in Selena’s face had joined forces with his own guilt over copying the messages without her permission and sent him out of her door without an argument. His emotions were in chaos. He wanted fiercely to turn the car around and go back to the studio and find out once and for all what her problem was with those images. If she’d let him in. At the same time, the word fragments he’d copied kept racing through his mind. Keeper. The poetic style. The handwriting.
He accelerated the Jag as fast as he dared over the narrow winding road leading toward the photo lab at Keighley. He was determined to try to make some sense of it all. Alex was mystified by the vehemence of Selena’s reaction. Not that he didn’t deserve her wrath, but the look on her face had included not only anger toward him for trespassing, as she put it, but also what could best be described as fear. The paintings, he surmised, were more to her than a source of income.
Significantly more.
Painfully more.
But what was it about those images that sent her into such a rage?
His thoughts shifted to the other mystery he’d just uncovered. It was inconceivable that those words Selena had painted in bits and pieces on her canvases could somehow be connected to Emily Brontë, but there was no denying the resemblance of the handwriting. And the words…“Keeper,” and the poetic nature of the composition…He pressed the accelerator still closer to the floorboard.
Alex didn’t bother to open the envelope he picked up a few moments later at the photo lab. Either the enlargements were readable or not. If not, there was nothing further they could do to enhance the images, the technician had told him. Alex felt adrenaline shoot through his veins as he made his way as rapidly as possible up the steep incline toward his flat.
Racing up the stairs, he pulled the crumpled sheets of the notepad containing the fragments he’d copied earlier out of his pocket and laid them carefully on the small table next to the packet of photos. He could hear his heart pounding in his chest, feel the nerve endings tingling at his fingertips.
As anxious as he was to see what he could piece together from his clandestine collection of Selena’s artwork, he wanted to savor the expectation as well. He gulped two Tylenol for his hangover, took a quick shower, donned fresh clothing, and made coffee, trying to still his mind, get his feelings under control.
But when he finally approached the chore at hand, he found no peace. The image of Selena’s accusing face continued to loom in his thoughts, in spite of his efforts to justify his actions. He should have asked her permission. But what if this was the evidence he’d been seeking, something that had never before surfaced concerning Emily’s life, and what if Selena had said no?
Hogwash, he replied equally as vociferously. You’re only trying to justify your deception.
And yet…
Alex brought over a small lamp from the end table and turned it on. He retrieved his strongest magnifying glass, ambivalently hesitant to undertake what he was dying to pursue. His hands shook as he opened the envelope and removed the grainy prints inside.
He worked slowly, painstakingly, as he’d been taught as a scholar, searching each blurry image for the secret it might hold. Most of the prints were totally unreadable, and one of the few readable messages was the same as one he had copied. In all, when he raised his head thirty minutes later, he had three usable images from the photos. These, plus the three he had pirated at Selena’s and the one he’d copied from the gallery in Haworth, would have to suffice.
He wiped his brow and leaned back in the rickety chair. Would they be enough to reveal anything that made sense? He wished now he’d copied the one he’d seen at the Perkins Galleries his first day in England.
Alex stood and went to the kitchen to pour another cup of coffee, debating on the next step to take in piecing the puzzle together, when a tiny red light flickered at the edge of his vision. Someone had actually left a message on his answering machine. He stared at it a moment almost in disbelief. He’d purchased the machine on a whim a couple of days after he’d given Selena his phone number, not wanting to take a chance on missing her call.
Which of course never came.
He pressed the Retrieve Messages button, hoping that by some miracle Selena had calmed down, decided to forgive him, and called while he was on his way home.
But the voice on the phone was old, not young, and its message, though short, left no doubt he still had some explaining to do about Henry H. Bonnell.
Chapter 21
May 24, 1848
It is that time of year again when all my thoughts turn to a certain gipsie I once met upon the moors. Two winters have passed since I last looked upon his face, and yet it is as clear in my mind as if he sat across this room from me. So much has happened since I talked with him, and I long to tell him the news as concerns Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, and Agnes Grey. I wonder what I would do if he were to return, for my longings are desperate and dangerous. If he were to make camp once again in the back ravine, I fear I would become depraved, my unquenched desire is so strong within me. How can I feel this way, when I know the world within is always there for me, and I do not need to know the pleasures of the flesh in reality. I have my imagination, and it has sufficed for nigh unto thirty years. Still, I wonder as I see the full moon creep across the spire of the steeple yonder what it would be like to know love in the arms of this man.
June 10, 1848
He has returned! My joyous heart is filled to overflowing. My deepest desire has been realized. I have not seen him yet, and I only know of his presence in the area from the message he left beneath our rock at the back ravine, which I found yesterday on my rambles with Keeper. He wrote only “emily, i am come back, i miss you.” My heart is wild with anticipation and fear.
June 12, 1848
There is much reason for me to fear, I find, now that I have met him once again in person. He stood against the rock outcropping, his long locks whipped by the brisk evening wind. I could scarcely hold myself together as I approached, for the sight of him filled me with such delight. I held my skirts high and ran toward him, and he broke into a radiant smile and ran to me as well. I was in his arms before I realized what happened, and his lips were upon mine with hungry passion. It was as if we were Cathy and Heathcliff, reunited for all time. I should feel shame for what I have done, and yet nothing seems more natur
al. Is this not the way it should be between men and women? This feeling of utter oneness when we are together? I allowed him to hold me in his embrace for a long while, and I felt comforted and complete for the first time perhaps in my entire life. How can this be wrong?
Attempting to ignore the implications of Eleanor Bates’s laconic message, Alex returned to the table where the pieces of the mysterious letter were laid out in an odd assortment of media. He ran his hands through his hair and down the back of his neck. He stared at the words that he seemed driven to connect, regardless of the cost.
The price was becoming steep. First, Selena. Now, his credibility with Eleanor Bates and the Brontë Society.
It had better be worth it, he reflected, picking up a pen and yellow legal pad. Carefully, he copied the words from each specimen onto the paper, making sure they were exactly in the same form as they appeared in the photos. When he had all seven pieces reproduced in a uniform style, he took a pair of scissors and cut them apart again, creating his own jigsaw puzzle.
The morning sun stretched toward noon. Traffic rambled noisily in the street below. A faucet dripped in the bathroom sink. But Alex was oblivious to all but the fascinating narrative taking form in front of him. He had been able to connect all but one piece in some relation to each other, creating a still incomplete picture, but one that was tantalizing in its contents:
my days
is failin
fail fast
which I
the pri
with you
behavio
welcom
In death my sh
never to hurt
forgiveness
is of you a
retributio
no hell he
the hell he
I will miss you and the mo
Keeper and the rest, but o
Time. I know there is a bl
opening its ports for me a
gazing Time’s wide waters o’re, I weary
for that land divi ere we were